Jeeves & the Profundity of Madrigals
by Fluxit Aqua et Sanguine
Summary: Jeeves' confidence in a certain endeavor is bolstered by music, a phenomenon he only thought possible for his master- unfortunately for him, things have not turned out precisely as planned. Chapter III was deleted, and I am VERY sad. ... why?
1. I Behold Your Beauty

**DISCLAIMER: **There are many things I don't own in this. The first and most tragic is, of course, Jeeves & Wooster itself. The others are the rights to these madrigals used in my piece, _Adieu, Sweet Amaryllis _and _L'Accesso_ ("I Behold Your Beauty"), and a little snippet from my luve, Oscar Wilde. OH! And a tiny bit of Bard paraphrase, too.

NO, I did NOT do research into whether or not this music I mention was around at that time, and it probably wasn't, since these were both just pieces that I sang in my school's Madrigal Choir last year that I loved, and wanted to correlate to my favourite book series.

So, this isn't composed terribly well, because it really is just my obsession with music coming into my obsession with writing, as I plan to go forth in both for college next year.

I hope that you enjoy this. I know it's a bit stumbling, this being one of my first fics that deals with expressing love and all, but... one tries.

Kindly read and review. It is much appreciated, as always. =3

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Caring for others is my life. One might think it a "waste", - and one can imagine that this dread is exacerbated by my master's massive kindness about me, - with my ability to glean and relay information as I do... but being didactic does not make a teacher. Simply offering a certain level of comfort that eases the mind to those who deserve something of extravagance is enough for me, especially when he who I serve can be a friend of sorts as well as a master. I think it is to do with giving honestly of oneself... though I am compensated well for my services, there is still a frank joy to be had in offering a kindness, and the daily smattering of advice dispensed into quiet evenings with the cigarettes and glasses of brandy.

This latter point makes me grateful- eternally- to have been sent to the company of Mister Wooster. He is so big-hearted that I have even come so far in my current employ as to be quite candid without so much as a coldness from the lips of my master- at the most, I am simply chided for being dour or doubting, but still considered with the sober contemplation of a worried, often-childlike mind. He allows me to serve him with a level of emotion within myself that I feel I would find peculiar, myself, if I were to encounter another valet very similar to me in his manner. Mister Wooster doesn't see it, but, undoubtedly, as he has come to be so adept at reading me, he could see if I began to restrain myself even more distantly beyond the obliterating mask.

I know this last, unfortunately, because he has seen it recently.

You mustn't imagine that my master has done anything offensive, as you must never think anything of that kind from him. He never acts cruelly with intention, and never _could_- only out-of-turn without noticing that he has done so. Whatever my words may indicate, you must bear these facts in mind. I fear that, in my solitude, laments may become quickly bitter entirely because of my own framing… it is my weakness as a corruptible man. Not Mister Wooster's.

Another thing you must understand, if you do not yet by my excessively potent speech, is my unfortunate level of care for Mister Wooster. I had never thought that I was one to fall into the sinful weakness of consuming negative emotion before I first became jealous of Miss Wickham for being the spark in my young master's eye. It was disturbing to me, frankly, - after having been under the distinct impression that it was my place to be good and adequately subservient at all times in my life, - that I could chance to look across the green before a golfing match to see them whispering and laughing in what my entire essence perceived as a suggestive manner, and feel that I could contort my face into one of bitter disgust with the words, _"How shall I murder her, Iago?"_ flitting across my lips. One does not have such thoughts as this with any sincerity for action, - nor to paraphrase the Bard to fit the feelings of a lowly valet, - but the passion of jealous moments is frighteningly enlightening of nature. As the Moor realized how easily his faith in one could be undermined by too much faith in another, so I realized a pained concupiscence (if I dare use so bold a word) for Mister Wooster that could just as soon lead to my hamartia as Othello's wife unwittingly led to his. Instead of working these into a ridiculous flame that would eventually have to be put out by my own hands' stifling it, I promptly chose to simply be rid of such feeling, by becoming the steel-hearted man one expects to, - and too often will, - meet at the Junior Ganymede Club.

Thus, Mister Wooster saw. He practically grew to upset when I refused to allow myself even hints of smiles in his presence, and was continually telling me to "buck up", or some other endearing command to be my 'old self' around him. The difficulty in my scheme was this one factor I should have considered well before I began... that Mister Wooster would show his magnificent level of graciousness and care for my newly darkened position. He offered me all manner of consolation and favors concerning his dress and sojourns to the continent... each offering made it yet more necessary to stay away, and, soon, I was caught in a completely unnecessary paradox. If I were truly lord over my emotions, as I should be, none of it would have produced an effect upon my person... simply telling myself that such a love is not only morally but legally inappropriate should have been enough for anyone.

Ah, there is the word _"love"_ upon my page... I had wondered on beginning this when I would begin using romanticized notions and all-implying words about what I feel for Mister Wooster, to lift it into the same kind of glory that young wedded couples share for the first several months of their union. I had hoped my constitution strong enough to be able to last for one thousand words before that strain would issue from my chorded passage. It worries me, not, perhaps, for his discovery... but over the thought that without such cloying romantics, I might well be despairing my very existence. One cannot say if this is merely an excuse, to allow an otherwise wrong level of feeling, or because I might _actually_ prove to do something untoward to my person if I had no more imagined hope for myself and Mister Wooster. In my mind, still, I am thinking towards allowing myself to consider the situation more joyfully, in some way, to improve my relations with my master, and because I have already lost a vast proportion of my self-control to this "love". This comes more easily with the addition of a song, as peculiar as the fact must sound. It seems that my master's passion for music has come to bring similar echoes of tune ringing through my head, making themselves appropriate to my life as they are played over and over again. This I've found in a madrigal I heard in an impromptu concert on the golf course when Mister Wooster was at the refreshment tent chatting to Miss Wickham once more. A quintet of vocalists who met in the lodge had chanced to come together, and, in the pleasure of meeting unexpectedly, they managed to pull together some music in a wonderfully proficient way. A selection from a little book of English madrigals the Bass-Baritone drew enthusiastically from his coat, called _Adieu, Sweet Amaryllis. _Certainly this is preposterous to you- but, then, that only means that you've not been in love so that you find yourself desiring a singing voice like you haven't since you were the lad who couldn't sing in tune with the church choir- _just_ to be able to provide that same level of praise, and infinitely higher level of expression than one can give in words, to the object of one's veneration. Mister Wooster deserves a song... but I can only give him this one recited daily in my mind:

_"Adieu, Adieu...  
__Adieu, Sweet Amaryllis..."_

Thus he is the tall, brightly colored flower that my dreams inevitably center around. Surely, there are differences in certain symbols, such as the _Amaryllis belladonna's_ ability to grow well in the dark, while my master must be eternally bathed in light. Still, the repetition of this piece obsessively through the back passages of my mind informs me of a new and beautiful similarity each time I come into a room with him. They share an elegant grace procured by height and a slight structure; both have a certain disposition to give a show of vivid coloring; both are easy to keep well in conditions that might not always prove the most favorable for growth. Hearty, bright and beautiful, to make a few words out of it. When I do so, I feel that I am vastly oversimplifying everything that my master has over this flower, and here must chide myself for the thought that he could be compared to something that lives and dies in months, anyway.

I am taking the relation to the flower with much too seriousness, as it is. The term in the song, as madrigals so often do, is merely a charmingly natural name given to a young woman. This is not at all surprising, when one considers the rather crass nickname given to the Amaryllis. I must say that, although I appreciate the relation to love, and am attempting to use it to mold to my own means, I find some resentment in imagining the song being sung to a woman. But that is merely something of my nature acting out, as it does whenever I take the time to make some self-pitying thoughts on the 'injustice' of my situation.

You must forgive me- I have gone vastly off-topic. Allow me to continue with my piece, in this case.

_"Adieu, Sweet Amaryllis...  
__For since to part your will is..."_

I recall this line having practically terrified me when it reached my ears, so involved as I had become with the vocalists' work, and at the same time I could see my master laughing with the fiery-haired Miss Wickham with great amiability, a hand sitting on the back of the young lady's chair in an unnerved gesture of affection. What can one do, but be horrified at what seems the world's insistence that one will soon lose everything embodied by that one, wondrous person? It was such a shock that I fairly stared at Mister Wooster for a time until the young people had reason to look in my direction, and it was back to what Mister Wooster cheerfully refers to as my "stuffed frog" face.

It felt even more like I was being pushed forward towards an end when, the next day, Mister Wooster sang the piece under his breath as I dressed him. I could voice nothing, but, in his endearing way of expression, my master quickly had words to accompany his small musical display.

"You know, Jeeves... that song yesterday by the five madrigal singers. It's the first old piece that's ever really spoken to me." He was smiling expectantly at me, looking like a puppy searching for approval after performing a trick on command, which made me return him with a controlled twitch of a smile.

"Really, sir? I am glad to hear it. The Old English Madrigals, with their natural imagery, and colorful allusions-"

"Never mind that, Jeeves, nor the poet _Burns_, or anyone else you could talk about with these songs. It's the bally business about _love_ I care about. Now, I know that you're something of a marvel about these affairs of the heart, but this is one instance of wooing which I am pretty sure you won't approve of. The song's been giving me courage, as it were."

"That is a very fortunate contingency, sir." And the same was true for myself. I hardly know of any other time in which Mister Wooster and I have had such strongly mutual feelings.

"I should find something to sing for this courtship. That pretty song has been with me since yesterday- and what could be better for an acceptance than to be thought of with a lovely bit of music? Don't you find that to be a corking idea, Jeeves?" I stepped back from my master with none of my past shoulder-brushing or tie adjustment and stifled a sigh in my throat.

"Ingenious, sir. That would seem to be an ideal plan." He grinned toothily at me,

"Isn't it, Jeeves?" He began sweeping his pale-paletted, willowy figure from the room, and I was obligated to follow. "I'm going to the music store, now. Toodle-pip!"

I was left alone to do my work for the day, and couldn't prevent myself obsessing over Mister Wooster's last words, for, able to consider things by myself, my mind in love began weaving ridiculous veils of hope over my eyes. Thinking, wrongly, that it was working in a logical progression, my mind began to surmise the following:

Mister Wooster could not have been speaking of Miss Wickham, because he alluded to an entirely new romantic prospect. And it was already utterly certain that I disapproved of the frivolous girl. The difficulty being, of course, that frivolity seems to be something of an initially attractive force for Mister Wooster due to his being of a bright and larkish nature. (But, then, I am under the impression that there is no woman for Mister Wooster- not only due to my admitted inclinations, but also because they are always much too soft, - "soppy", or with wills much too simply swayed, - or of a disposition to attempt to change my master into something he is not, a hard-working man with his "nose to the grindstone", as it were. I could not tolerate anyone who would consider doing the latter to him. There is none who can contain within herself equal parts kindness and consideration to be a proper wife for him.) Because of this assumption, I could go on to suppose other things- or, at least make hopeful guesses. Had he ever even said that he was to speak to a female in this way during our passed dualogue? I noted quickly that he had not, as his speech came through my mind in its entirety in the way his words always do. One in love could only way that this was for a reason. Why should he have neglected to use the phrase "courtship of a young lady" as opposed to the first word by itself? Assuming, then, that he was seeking to charm a man, I told myself to think of those closest to him, and pleased myself to say that I could think my own position near to the top of the order. All that impeded me were my appearance and my social class, but the latter couldn't matter if he were already willing to face breaking the law for his new love. My minimal physical attractiveness, then, was the final barrier- but what could be less important in a virgin love?

My mind surmised much, piling assumptions upon assumptions and finding love in everything that was a kindness towards me from my master. When he arrived home, I fairly jumped from my table- I had been caught in a reverie of thought, still. None of the mending I'd sat at my table to do had managed to perform itself during my hour or so of contemplation. My embarrassing physical reaction of highly-sensitive nerves was raised to a yet higher power by Mister Wooster's asking me to come into the sitting-room, in which, with a sweetened flush brightening his pale face, he passed me the sheets to a little Frottola called _L'Accesso_.

"Sir...?"

"I- wondered..." His eyes moved pleasingly with distraction from my face to the floor, "I wondered if you might... translate this in rhythm for me. I know you can play the piano- you just have to put this into English, maybe add a beat here and there, but it's got to sound like the original tune. Is that all right, Jeeves?" He started again after a moment of silence, nearly stuttering with some peculiar case of nerves, "I'll give you any sum you demand for it, within reason, old thing. I know it's a job..." I could tell that I shocked him by the half-smile I felt upon my lips that must have seemed to him the equivalent of my jumping about and screaming with joy.

"That is not necessary, sir. The romance languages have always been a passion of mine. With the aid of books, I am sure that something adequate will result." He beamed at me, and stood back with his hands in his pockets.

"Thank-you, Jeeves."

That phrase had me started on the translation immediately. Each time I had some other task to perform, I found that tune could find itself in my thoughts; pushing itself to the forefront of my mind even past that other piece about my graceful amaryllis- still... the latter drew itself forward, in periods, and does, now...

_"Oh, heavy tiding..."_

A day had me with a translation. Not the most eloquent, perhaps, and a bit modern for a tune with such age to its name, but one that would, I imagined, serve to charm. Each moment spent in translation told me that this was a delightful piece of work he put me to, to figure out our own romance that had come blooming through me for some inappropriately long measure of time. He was using it as a sort of litmus test, and I was quite prepared to be as basic as I could.

"Ah, Jeeves," he sighed upon the next afternoon, gazing from the sheet music to the typed page of English to me. He paused before he sat gracefully at the piano and eyed the arrangement as though he would swallow the lot in his joy. "You're a _marvel."_

"I always endeavor to give satisfaction, sir," I returned, setting my scene beautifully in my thoughts already by feigning a desire to leave the room. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

My imaginations were working, as I could only have imagined they would. He stopped me with a word, "Yes, Jeeves. I want you to stay and listen to my song before I go off and start making a fool of myself before the one I love." _Exactly_ as it came through my mind. He would tell me to stay, and sing, and then, in his majestic way, subtly explain why he was so nervous and so delicate about having me translate the piece...

His nimble fingers made an F Major chord bubble cheerfully from the depths of the piano, and I nodded for him to begin. His smile before beginning could well have been the undoing of any reasonable, loving man.

_"I behold your beauty  
__When your love surrounds me-  
__Hear the song I sing before thee!  
__Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!_

_I behold your beauty  
__When your love surrounds me-  
__Hear the song I sing before thee!  
__Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!_

_Open your heart and listen,  
__And keep me from despair!  
__For I see your face so lovely,  
__My singing fills the air!  
__Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la!_

_For I see your face so lovely,  
__My singing fills the air!  
__Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la, Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la!_

_I behold your beauty  
__When your love surrounds me-  
__Hear the song I sing before thee!  
__Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!_

_I behold your beauty  
__When your love surrounds me-  
__Hear the song I sing before thee!  
__Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!"_

It was, frankly, beautiful in his light baritone as I hoped it would be, sweet and delightfully masculine, so that I very nearly closed my eyes at the third refrain, and was halfway surprised out of a moment of quiet ecstasy by his words. I had worded the piece in a way as to work to my personal advantage, as can be seen, and as selfish as that sounds- partly disregarding physical qualities until love is found to be true. It is the attitude that I found in myself with Mister Wooster, and prayed for it to be present in his actions with me.

"How would you feel if that song were meant for you, Jeeves?" That voice questioned, and its absolute innocence deceived me, all due to my present condition. I assumed, - as I had too many times before, since the day prior, - that I was_ making _the world move in the way of my desires because I was deserving of some recompense from the unfortunate life I've had before coming into Mister Wooster's employ- and even then, once love came secretly to life. The phrase was perfect, and, so, I believed entirely in myself and abilities that I never would have even considered myself to have, in normalcy.

I see, now, that the ideal of a universal equation is incorrect, precisely for this situation. The _words_... to use the phrases of my master, I was knocked clear off my feet, head-over-heels and bathing in the stew of my obsessive love until my brain recovered itself, and offered its feelings forth in a line of my famously all-encompassing words, taken from the poet who was, at the time, closest to the surface of my mind.

I would like to say that I had no idea what I was doing when I sat beside my master and took his hands, but this is not true. I am not a man to simply follow an impulse without realizing it- I _know_ that I took this chance, deliberately, to show myself at my worst, and most loving.

_"Here is for me no biding..."_

"'It is a wonder that your lips were made as much for the madness of music as the madness of kisses,'" I breathed in full voice, prepared for my poetic and perfect reception, gazing over that perfectly-featured face as I would take it in the way he did my music... until the moment following, in which Mister Wooster dropped us into silence like a too-heavy stone, and I looked to see him staring away from me to the piano, his throat working in a difficult swallow. My hands leaped to my sides, and I took a step back practically before I had stood, quite torn apart by the one word that escaped his throat.

"What?" he questioned softly, and with a baffled note that had no place in my dreams. So... it _was_ no perfection, or return for some goodness or for suffering in the past. Just another tic added to my growing count of despairs. I could not say how long it was, waiting to respond to that word- nor how much it affected me, a simple question that, to a normal valet, may have been something so very simple as having mis-heard what the dinner menu was, that had been spoken with such deliberation that there was no way in which to defend against it. I had veritably done what one hears of sometimes in the newspaper, of men coming under the influence of heavy alcohol or absinthe and thinking that he can walk out of a window without falling to his death. The exception being that _he_ would likely not wake again to regret it, and, if he did, the injury would not remain for the rest of his life.

I had nothing else but to prevent my shoulders shaking as I collected my thoughts to speak again, although I could not perform the same controlling spell over my voice.

"I shall begin packing my things forthwith, sir," I promised him in an undertone, my hands clasped behind my back and my eyes trained on the globe light in the ceiling above the piano.

"Yes... yes. That'd be spiffing, Jeeves." That richly saccharine timbre shook just as much as my voice had, if not more- and one could see why. Once one could see any physical acts of kindness as acts between friends- when an element of love was added, one could not prevent oneself coming to imagine malicious or sexual intent. It was an eye opening that would have been avoided by his acceptance, which I had banked on, but this was not to be. I moved to go dutifully, and Mister Wooster stopped me with a quick word, and a shaking smile, "One of yours, Jeeves?" I smiled ruefully at his ability to come back around so quickly, and shook my head,

"No, sir. A paraphrase of Wilde."

"Ah, yes... good." His new pause gave me half a mind to ask him to reconsider my fate, but he waved me off after I stood staring for another moment.

_"Yet once again,  
__Yet once again,  
__Again ere that I part with you."_

I wish that I could have explained to him how his releasing me with the same care he had when I left him for his obnoxious banjolele playing was only something to make me love him and his capacity for compassion even more... but I could not. I appeared to have alienated him in a way that would have pushed him to acting against his nature if I attempted to express any more.

_"Amaryllis, Amaryllis..."_

"Mister Wooster." I can see it now, in my memory, how I lift my bowler and clutch my bags to my sides; how he smiles with tight lips and bounces impulsively on his heels, those strikingly bright blue eyes fixed on a spot before my feet. There is no move whatever to shake hands, or any such companionable gesture.

While I know there is no equation for happiness in the world... I have found the one for the punishment of insufferable hubris.

"Jeeves."

_"Sweet adieu."_

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**A/N: **...Eh?

I've tried, here. And I'm sorry for that fact, that that is all I could do. BUT, even though it was to be the first time, this is _not_ going to be the end of the story. I guess that it will probably be reasonably long, if I have any promotion. But, here's the bit: I _NEED_ promotion. If you don't like this, and don't respond at all, well... I'm likely to stop.

But, then, you wouldn't care, would you, if you don't like this? XP If you DO like this at all, I respectfully request some sort of comment or any positive remark you can give to me, for the encouragement I will undoubtedly need to continue. I've most of my next chapter (featuring Bertie!), but, still, require some further community support.

Thanks for reading, whatever your feelings are. Much appreciated. X3

_-Raven_


	2. Sweet Adieu

**DISCLAIMER:** I was once asked seriously if I owned Jeeves & Wooster, and was able to reply "yes"- unfortunately, this was a hallucination caused by blood loss after a drive at my school and was completely false.

Wa-hey! It's my first attempt to write a fanfiction worth (?) posting on this site from BERTIE'S perspective! You must bear with me on this. I LOVE to go off on long rambles and try to use words as cleverly and adroitly -_cough_- as I can, however successful that is. Therefore, I can only apologise if my Bertie is lacking in voice, because I can't do so much with the too-long sentences with him that I so madly hoard. And me trying to use Bertie's mannerisms... pfeh.

I've borrowed from Shakespeare again, as well, because I CAN. (Well, more because I like to, really.)

Kindly read and review, as always, and many MANY thanks to those who reviewed my last chapter, giving me the will to press on through this difficult part. =3

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Bobbie was really great to help me find a scheme. Really great. She always knows what to do, to make a man feel better in the circs., when one's feeling low.

Jeeves was acting awfully gloomy just then, and I didn't know what I could do to cheer the fellow. Wouldn't take any of the things I offered him to make him his old joyous self, really... it made a Wooster feel rightly nervous. So, at this most recent of my golfing exploits, Bobbie told me to give him something creative or interesting to do, to take his great mind off whatever was causing the old m. to be so g. She's really a good egg, she is, young Bobbie. But I've no views to marry her anymore, really. That red hair can tempt the most stony of the human race, but her extreme larkiness has quite had me off the scent since I and Mister Fungy-Fipps were put to puncturing one-another's water bottles in the middle of the night on the very same evening. Still, this bit isn't about the birds, and, anyway, Miss Wickham was plainly wonderful to think of some way to help- I put her plan into work the next day. It couldn't fail, from what I could see. Sighing that I longed to impress someone who caught my gaze with a bit of birdsong... it was not only a dashed good scheme, but one that didn't make me play the fool, which was, perhaps, the best bit of the whole thing.

So, I proposed the thought to my man the next day, that I should require some music. If I'm right in my study of Jeeveses, - which I can fairly well say that I am, - he was totally animated when I suggested that he translate this bit of Italian I'd requested from the man at the counter in the music shop. On seeing one of the more famous Drones, my friendly shopkeep already had got all of his show tunes and friendly, lightly thoughtful melodies that Jeeves would take a tone to laid out over the front table- it was a shame to disappoint a fellow with the words "ancient love song" on one's lips, but there it is.

Anyhow, the way my man's eyes lit up and the way his lips twitched an eighth of an inch to the left on presentation gave me great promise. He was going to be as happy as he could be again... and_ I _was to be the cause of it. I'd had to use a scheme, of course, but it still gave a charming bit of warmth. Doing well by one's fellow man, and all that. The very thought of forcing my non-existent thespiary (assuming that's what I mean to say) abilities forward for this lie about the music had made me awfully hesitant about the proposal in the first place, and, at the time, I was quite gratified to see that he believed me- I think I can say that I've some idea _why_ he believed me, now, and it steals whatever bit of pleasantness there is to be had in thinking that I had the ability to fool a great mind just by my own front.

My man gave me my piece back in just a day, and, to continue on with my believability- for it is a trial, to scheme against a Jeeves, the undisputed master of the scheme- I had to play it for him, too. It really was quite bouncy and lyrical, not greatly unlike what I usually like to depress upon the ivories. I could see the Drones appreciating that piece for their efforts at charming in the ever-popular sport of beazel-hunting.

I don't even remember what I said, now, as I was thinking of the success of my guise, but that I asked a reasonably friendly question to my man about how he would like the song, if someone sang it to him. It seemed understandable to me, really. One sings a song, and asks someone if they think it is charming- it shouldn't have any _deeper_meaning, no matter what situation one's in, unless one plans to jump up and shout "I jolly well love you!" within the moments after. But things went deeper than a question for Jeeves- I could tell immediately after I asked him, though it was a moment before anything really 'happened'. Said f. q. was taken much, _much_ too far, and I do recall what exactly he said to me. I really was glued to my spot as he sat beside me and took my hands with such peculiar strength. My heart was unbearably loud all around me, and I knew I was dreaming a bally odd dream.

_"'It is a wonder that your lips were made as much for the madness of music as the madness of kisses.'"_ His normally stone map smiled at me, smiled _fully _in a way that put a squirm in my stomach, and my hands pulled weakly against his as I tried to figure everything out. Nothing came, and nothing made sense- least of all, my feelings on the matter past the blinding shock. Whatever the case was, I wanted to be released.

Before one could say they'd had a proper pause to think, he was out the door, and I was really still on about my own fear inside my head. I sat in my favorite chair, forgetting that I now had to get my brandy for myself before I could take a comfortable seat to make myself suitably tight. Halfway into this session, my hands had come over my face unwillingly, and I was shaking my head into them, a gesture of despair I didn't consciously put out- anyone with any inkling of a Wooster's mind will certainly tell you that this is not at all normal for the last of his line. But I remember it, because of its close relation to the strongest pull of dread I had all that night, not numbed enough to forget, but _just _sauced enough to heighten everything to nearly unbearable levels of feeling.

If the moonlight did not sleep sweetly upon this bank, as I've heard Jeeves say, no night was so clear and calm. I was angry because of it. The circs. being what they were, I wanted the anger and gnawing fear... rolling? Rocking? Ah, yes... the gnawing fear _roiling _inside me to come out in the sky, so the whole dashed world could hear how Bertram Wilberforce Wooster had been wronged by his man. The m's s-ing was just frustrating to look up at in the black sky, and no one else knew, - or could know, - of this crime but the perpetrator.

And _what_ a crime it was... One _couldn't_ be unaware of that sort of thing when it was illegal in the most public way possible,- that his words could have been condemning, if I had wanted that,- and people of 'that sort' were all the same, devious, underhanded, and of a disposition to breaking the law in more ways than that _one_. My notions of the concept of what are called _'inverts'_and Jeeves were so totally separate in my mind that I found it better to try to forget that it all had happened... at least, where that all was concerned. It was trouble enough considering the two in the same sphere, as Jeeves encompassed all that was intellectual- the polar opposite of those creatures of base physical extremity one was,- and is,- practically threatened with in some effort to forcibly sway into close relations with the fair sex.

It took until the next, suitably grey morning through a raging headache for me to think that, maybe, what Jeeves had done was not really 'wrong'. Surely I had been told how awful those types are in school, and when men are taken away, but... Jeeves wasn't _really_ like that. Not from what they say, anyway, or the lurid descriptions of prisoners for gross indecency. Of _course_ it was disturbing, to think that a man like that was dressing me and attending me in the bath, but it wasn't like anything untoward had occurred, but maybe too much lingering on fixing my tie, which could even have been imagined due to this revelation, or just Jeeves' professional perfectionism. Things became simpler as I grew the guess that, by my knowledge of Jeeves to this point, it really _must _have been a strain of love instead of that degenerate feeling I had supposed it was immediately at the outset... but that was, I think, even more perverse, in my considerations (just because I couldn't guess at the beginning or end of such a thing- the love of two coves, I mean). And he was so intellectual, too, apart from that one outburst... I pondered- worried?- over what ever I'd done to make him think that he had any sort of chance with charming _me_ in that way.

That day was an awful one I spent in trying to take my bath and will the headache away myself, which was a miserable failure even with aspirin, and, what was worse, I couldn't stop thinking of my man, his black-suited form hovering silently about the flat, shimmering in and out of doors with that impeccably stoic white face and even hand. Wondering where ever he went after I'd give him such a bad rejection. What would _I_ have felt, if _I_ were really over the moon for someone like that, that I could just start reciting sighing lines of love-struck poetry to express myself?

But, then, I had no inkling of what Jeeves could have felt, since I hardly think the man feels anything. I've never seen him act towards me with much of anything really strong until the day before, and some instances in which I was placed in really mortal danger. Maybe he was clutching himself and moaning in a dank pit of despair the likes of which are known only to those deep down the rings... but, then, by the same token, he may have already forgotten about good old Bertram. Given love a try and decided that it wasn't right for him. It wasn't like there were any tears on his departure...

Now, one doesn't like to sound selfish, but I really was thinking more of my last point when I called on the Junior Ganymede Club to glean Jeeves' whereabouts. What if he had forgotten me already? I don't know if I could have borne that thought, that the paragon who informed me that "there is a tie that binds" could have lost his last master without a backward glance. I feared that I'd given him too much reason to want to do so for me to be content without action. The man in the foyer greeted me with a cool, "Can I help you, sir?"- what, to me, sounded like a cruel impersonation of my man himself, even a parody, with its less-than-perfect grammar- and I briefly lost my ability to form real words. Once my lips and tongue had slunk back into place through a moment of harsh, critical staring from the grey little man before me, my voice was quiet and groaning, like the sound of an old iron gate. A small one, mind you.

"Jeeves." I cleared my throat into my hand with the tone of an angry rhinoceros seething at the ground, and started again. "I am looking for a Mister Jeeves. I... released him from my service last evening and should like to speak to him." The man eyed me with all the air of an Alsatian considering a cat across an open field, but, - probably because of my he- hemorrhage... Helios... ah! My hysterical way, he went to the back door across the room, after muttering "I'll see if I can find him" under his breath irritably.

When Jeeves was presented to me, disregarding all pretenses, I rushed forward and looked him over. Jeeves has never looked so little like the sight for sore eyes he is than that moment. His face was pale, his cheeks burning red, and his eyes moving unprofessionally about the room in a way that convinced me it must have been my own producing an illusion, because I never imagined I would see my man in such a great state of disc-... state of worry. When he cleared his throat, while still less offensive than my own hacking boorishly into my hand, it was rather in the way of a racing stud standing nobly across the room from you than a placid old ram on a hillside. It put that ill-feeling I got when he'd taken my hands back in me, to see he was still dressed as the day before, his jacket slightly wrinkled and his hair without its brilliantine sheen sitting over his brow.

'So,' the Wooster brain said to itself, 'this is Jeeves after a crisis. One would like to see him after a great joy.'

"Good Morning, Mister Wooster." He was _whispering _to me! I was halfway to offense before the mind calmed itself by the conclusion that it was some kind of bodily strain that caused the change in voice, the kind that happens when you're awake all night or really worried about something, so much that the tiring sands have no effect whatsoever (which one could only say by the very same act on oneself at the same moment, of course). I nodded; I could see that I needed to say something after a few moments of awful silence, or else he would retreat into what I deemed his currently pale existence again with all the other willingly or unwillingly idle butlers and valets. Pity welled within the thin Wooster chest, a feeling I really never thought possible of feeling about the ever-dignified Jeeves. But, then, I never thought I would be in this dashed awkward position, anyway.

"Hello, Jeeves... it's good to see you again," I returned as warmly as I could, nodding the man who fetched Jeeves away as my former man himself gazed directly up at me for the first time, his eyes wide and quite shocked- in my learned opinion, anyway. He didn't believe how really glad I was to see him. After my hurt from the night before, I wasn't entirely sure why I could be so relieved to come into his presence, either. "How are you, this morning?"

"Most well, thank-you, Mister Wooster. Your concern is deeply appreciated." At this, I finally _did_ have some good reason to take offense- rather than taking what I said to heart, _believing_ that I had genuine care for him to be well, he was jolly well practicing his valet's mask on me! So I guessed in a moment, anyway. The truth about it all is that I wanted a reason to be frustrated with him that didn't come from what he'd done the night before. That would have just crippled our friendship even further, and it was already sent limping down the dirt path away from home. Still, looking to the way he held his face, and thinking of the previous evening, I could not help feeling guilty for the fact that I was probably one of the only ones, if not _the_ only (even _I _can't deny pleasure at this last thought), to receive a full Jeevesian smile, and how it would never come before my eyes again because I told him to be away with such things. Not in words, of course, but by what I did. Before I could get any of my burning thoughts to my tongue, though, Jeeves had begun again more quietly, so that I could hardly hear him from several feet across the room. "May I speak frankly for a moment, Mister Wooster?"

"Go right ahead, Jeeves. I am truly agog to learn what you have to say, to make use one of your own wheezes." I don't know what came over me when I said such a thing to him, as I still felt my mind rebelling against a companionable manner with him. But... Jeeves _was _still Jeeves, that man who I genuinely considered my greatest ally before I released him. Rashness is a quality we Woosters don't pride, but, then, we Woosters are redeemed through our ability to see that we've spoken or acted too soon almost immediately after we've made the mistake. The stiff figure before me straightened his jacket, looking like a dead man making a particularly clever impersonation of life, and started in the sort of deepened voice that he had reserved in the past for grave dissatisfaction with the young master, but whose unease was now directed somewhere besides myself.

"I believe that we both might consider that there were... _mistakes _executed yesterday afternoon and evening. So I surmise by your appearance here to find me, that is, sir." The eyes were back downward, and one could see why- it was so uncommon for Jeeves to make any sort of discernible mistake that it had to be awfully shaming (though, I don't really think that he was looking away for that reason. Just a thought. I can't imagine that, were I so much a mental marvel as that, I could tolerate being told once that I was most _definitely _wrong, let alone tell it to others). "One's were worse than the other's, certainly." I felt my mouth smile involuntarily at this- Jeeves' refusing to place the blame exactly. Made it easier for both of us in avoiding the reality of everything, and, for once, after all those long spouts of information that I can't recall for my life, his knowledge of the psychology of the individual could finally come into good use. "I shall not request to be your valet again- that would be taking a liberty far beyond my bounds. Yet I can allow myself enough disregard for your impenetrably higher position to request that we might exchange correspondence once I have found a new permanent address."

I hated the fact that, again, my rashness urged me onto yelling against this idea- or, at least, sparking a good argument against it. And why? His proposal was perfectly reasonable, and, anyway, the only reason I'd come to the Ganymede Club was to be sure that Jeeves was well, not to even say we would exchange letters like old friends, and much less to beg him to come back. Still, embarrassing as it was, I could only find a surge of comfort when I considered this last option. One did not like to be dependent upon a man who held too much care... but it had to be a better posish than having a man with no care at all, as that had almost literally been the death of young Bertram from some time back, with the blighter Mister Bingely. After a rather rude noise through my lips, my hands through my hair, and a lightly puzzled "Mister Wooster?" from the other side of the room, I came forward and started with him straight.

"Look, Jeeves, I don't want to just... send letters to you like some schoolboy chum I've not seen in years." The foolishness was unbearable, and I was convinced that a man so intelligent as my old valet wouldn't be able to come back to me just because of the one word... stupidity, but with a "fat" at the beginning... fatuous, - if that's the word I'm looking for- because of the fatuousness of my having told him to go, and then asking him to come back immediately after, he wouldn't be able to come back after seeing such an idiotic display of mental negligence. It all made me squirm when I had to try to talk again, but it was all needed, if I was to get him back against the brain's objection. "Really, if you'd have me, I... would like you to come back. Be the man of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster again, for the sake of friends and whatsits."

He seemed to consider this, - so I figured, as he was still not looking at me, but I could swear I heard the minute buzzing of his mind working furiously behind his currently soft-looking black hair and high, noble forehead, - and did so for some time. It was a moment of the old _deja_, if you know what I mean, having the exact same experience twice. This quiet was just the echo of what I'd given to him the night before, except that, today, no one was smiling.

Finally, after some time, a promising twitch of the lips came through his face, with something in the gesture that I couldn't put my finger on, another feeling to make me nervous about his acceptance, but, - good old Jeeves, and all, - I didn't have reason to worry.

"I would be honored to return to your employment, Mister Wooster. It is magnificent of you to forgive so easily." His eyes still didn't come up, but I could tell his truthfulness, and so clapped a hand to his shoulder when he was finished and felt him give a great start that I guessed was from nervous exhaustion, the same as what I suffered from in those moments, the kind to loosen one's tongue and one's actions.

"Good man, Jeeves." I was grinning most like the Cheshire as I ever had to prove my truth in gladness to him- and it really was deserved. I imagined that the worst thing to do in the circs. would be to make him think that I wasn't entirely grateful for his coming back to me, and, so, I went out of my way to show that Bertram was quite lost even hours without him. "Things are going to be better when we go back home again, Jeeves. The larks will sing at daybreak, the grey doves in the day, and the nightingales before evensong, if all goes as planned. Beauty every moment for this pair of blue-eyed chaps, so long as you're back."

I couldn't say where all of this waxing-Bassett came from- this speech about it all being beautiful and good, for _"us"_, when I had so recently destroyed one of the least-formal uses of that word that could be put to our state together. I really was being purely optimistic in the face of a terrible end- anything, no matter how soppy and loathsome, to make it look as if we would never have to speak of the incident in the future, near or far. I suppose the speech was at least partly stemmed from the great rattle I got from seeing Jeeves as devastated as he was- so much that I felt I was leading a man on the brink of some mortality-inducing crisis from the Junior Ganymede. (One shudders to think, but I have the bitter feeling on penning this that such upset could have been what I _wanted _out of Jeeves. Hadn't I gone to the Club just to remind him that I existed before he biffed off to parts unknown, after all?) I guess that one has to suffer some sickness by too much sugar when one's being nursed back from near-starvation- it's what I was doing with my man. I can't really give any more good reason. It would be appreciated if you, my ever-vigilant reader, would simply accept my utter change in speech just because I say it happened.

My lines of thinking and assurance kept with me into the raven-dark cab set for Berkeley Mansions,- just the colour of the clear evening sky,- and I was soon running my mouth off once more.

"You see, Jeeves, Bertram Wooster is looking towards being _forgiven_. I like to think that there is... some kind of balance in us, you see, that runs through people. An equation, I suppose. I just want to make things up to you for the bit of a rift we had. You'll see. It will all be in order between master and man again before days are out, so long as the last of the Woosters has mind with which to keep his promise."

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**A/N:** Poorness! 8D

I say this mostly because I lost the page that had the 'real' ending to this chapter (I tend to print my work and hand-write stuff away from the computer, see), and got so fed up with trying to find it after days that, much like in my other work, Lord of the Fries, I simply stitched on a quasi-modo ending that is only the general idea of what I really had, and it makes me feel sad and disappointed with what I've posted. Maybe I'll post the real one if I find it- for now, I just feel like posting this so I can get on with forgetting this attempt to write as Bertie, and come back to my ideas in Jeeves' mind. XP (And the lovely poem If Music Be the Food of Love, which will be making an appearance shortly).

Read and review? I _would_ appreciate a review very much, if you are willing to give one, and hope that you can bear with me through this chapter onto my next Jeeves-narrated one, as I think the next will be significantly improved in voice.

I don't even know WHAT categories to put this story in... Sorry if you don't think the pair I have right now is appropriate. But I'm going to try to make it fit, or else change it once I finish.

Cheers, all!

_-Raven_


	3. Come, Heavy Sleep

**DISCLAIMER/LAMENESS:** First of all, I own nothing to do with _Jeeves and Wooster_. Nor Beethoven, nor the line I stole from Shakespeare, nor the music of Dowland.

Secondly—the lame part—would it be terribly sad if I told you that I was galvanized into writing this again because I did a Google search of "Jeeves and Wooster fan fiction" and saw that the comments to my story came up eventually, with the statement, "may the resolution of the story appease the audiences of Jeeves and Wooster fanfiction!" beside it? I know, I should care more about my writing as well as the people who subscribed to alerts and so on, but I am just the lamest sort of person, who will, when inspiration has fled, just give up entirely.

In my attempt to be a somewhat better person this year, and because I think I owe it to the people who might like to read it, I'm going to make an attempt at writing and posting a chapter in one evening. Here's hoping that that goes well! **EDIT:** **IT _DID!_** (Well, in that I actually wrote it. Its quality is... questionable.)

I think I'm going to end up using some influences from Beethoven's Symphony Number Nine, because that's what's stuck in my head right now, and, as I'm a music major in college, music and writing to hand-in-hand for me all the time.

**ONE MORE THING:** This is one of three potential endings I plan to write for this fan-fiction, and is the least-dramatic of all of them. But, as I said above, I just want to post something for you lovely people to read tonight, and hope that you don't think it's overbearingly lame.

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**Ending I: Sleep  
**

Being drawn back to my place by my master's side after a simple day away from him was torturous. I didn't expect it to be, frankly; when he first came to me, to ensure that I would return to his service and his side, I had been elated—if somewhat exhausted from the entirety of the situation, and the fact that I was not used to such emotional strain. But those weeks with him, all of that time spent together in 'friendship'… it is such a low, base sensation to which to climb down to, especially after one has already realized the exultant feeling of believing one's affections to be returned, and been struck with the boldness to take on those feelings and express them in return.

Allow me to explain, if I may: One has a certain build-up of feeling, and one expects there to be somewhat of a climax; after it occurs, the situation surrounding it may either produce contentment in the completion of the act, or else distress that the act has ended and sadness that that, the moment that was so fleeting and bright, was the highest point to which one would ever come. I feel that the time spent with Mister Wooster immediately after my return was the latter. Not only was I afraid that my love for him—that pathetic thing that still languished, whining, in a corner of my heart—would show itself at inopportune times and bother my master, but, worse still, I was obsessing in a way that I never knew myself to do before.

I do not consider myself an obsessive man, by nature. I find that I am generally able to come to care for things and enjoy them in moderation. I have friends who I enjoy spending time with, but I do not think of them for hours on end, awaiting our next meeting. When I loved Mister Wooster in my quiet way, before I thought I had much of any chance of expressing my feelings, I didn't pine over him; I didn't think of him when I had better things to be doing, for I could see him whenever I wished to, and feel that I was expressing my love enough in my service to get by, from one day to the next. But returning to the flat left a certain hollow space within me, a vacuum that was quickly filled with thoughts of him. Wondering what my master thought of me in these days, and what he had thought of me before I had the fatuous idea that an overture would be successful, and, most pressing, wondering what care he had had for me that had been shattered when I told him of my feelings.

The last was the worst because I could tell that there had been a change, but I could not name it. I was unable to find the source, and, so, there was nothing to be done about it, there were no clever plans that could be woven around it, because I did not see what the change had been. I knew that he was more delicate about me than usual, which, truth be told, augmented my ill-feeling about the situation. As I've already mentioned, service to Mister Wooster is just about the most important thing to me, as it is not only an expression of my assumed place in life and the status that I have, but, more, because it is aiding a man I love, and a man who, it can be frankly said, deserves luxury in his life. Perhaps he does not work, or produce anything of tangible value, but the soul must count for something in the way of deserved pleasures in life.

I found another song that appeals to my state of mind at the time very soon after I arrived back at the flat to live with my master again. I find it a marvel: When one has just begun taking notice of something, one suddenly finds it everywhere in the world; once one has connected a song to life, every piece of music there is begins to relate in some way to the web of existence. I find it an extremely comforting piece of music, because I do not believe that I shall ever find solace with this awful affair with Mister Wooster.

_"Come, heavy sleep..."_

I have reasons for believing that there shall never be anything beyond what little headway I made; I do not simply speak pessimistically, though that tends to be my wont in matters of the heart. We have had conversations since I've been back, ones that do not seem to have anything like the gay joviality that Mister Wooster used to maintain so well, nor the pleasing references to our favorite literature that my master and I would share in what I might consider something of a playful fashion.

He has treated me, since I returned, like a piece of glass. And that is quite the opposite of what I would like, being denied his love.

It would be better if he were angry with me, if he acknowledged any possible over-stepping of the boundaries between us on my part and informed me of the fact with frustration in his voice. I would at least know, then, that I didn't worry him. He doesn't speak of what happened between us, now, and he prevents me doing certain things that used to be part of my job, such as aiding him in dressing and so on. The most I am allowed is to arrange his tie and his jacket properly when he cannot do so, and to tie his shoes. He goes out to dinner much more often, so I cannot cook for him; he goes to his club in the afternoons, so there is no tea-time. Worse than simply being rejected for his love, I feel that I've become less than a friend to him. I was a confidante before, I am sure—otherwise I would not have had the misplaced courage that led me to speaking as I did. Now I am being treated like and encouraged to feel like a valet should: Working for his master when it is required, but otherwise living the life of a man from the lower orders privileged enough to live in a beautiful city and expensive flat because my master is a man of some great means.

_"The image of true death..."_

There can be no other word for it than 'torture'. I can't speak to him about the matter. Whenever I've considered the matter, I find myself leaving him, which wouldn't do, not after he specifically requested my presence back with him. I've gone so far as to put to paper the things I would say, and they generally follow a path like the following:

**J:** _Mister Wooster, I would like to speak to you on the matter of my admission of love to you some time ago._

**Mr. W:** _Of course, Jeeves, do carry on. Keeping in mind, of course, that I said, then, that I don't love you, and am currently doing my best to woo the fair Roberta Wickham._

**J:** _Of course, sir. I was mistaken in bringing up the topic, sir; perhaps sir would care for some coffee?_

I can't reproduce my master's charming colloquialisms without feeling very self-conscious, but that seems to me an appropriate approximation. There is nowhere to move to when we are both aware of the situation, and stand on opposite ends of the spectrum with regard to how it should end. The subject is closed. As Mister Wooster has stated before, we are both men of strong convictions; no one is going to convince the other that one path is right and the other is wrong. We have to tolerate each other. It is only a shame that being tolerant of another's opinions, in this case, "enriches him none, but makes me poor indeed."

I crave your indulgence, my dear reader, for I have to pen everything I can about this matter, in order to ease the load from my mind: I have, honestly, considered suicide since I've been back. It's been three months now, and Mister Wooster and I have not had a conversation that seems remotely like friendship. It sounds like the most melodramatic, narcissistic consideration, to think of killing oneself that one may have another person by their side, but I've thought of it. The reason is because I am weary. At the end of every day, I am left with a crushing weakness that I never experienced before, not until the day that I was first released from his service. Not speaking is more draining of emotion than speaking to him, for the silence is filled with thoughts; with obsession over his thoughts. I am now no more than a convenience, no more than the man he is hiring to do the domestic chores he cannot

_"And close up these, my weary weeping eyes..."_

There have been times where I have seen glimmers, shining like gold from the pan of my desires, but it always turns out to be the faint shine of something worthless like a speck of quartz rather than gold. The most prominent and the worst of these came relatively recently, and, as our first encounter did, had something to do with music. Mister Wooster was still looking to attract Miss Wickham, it seemed, and I was again called to perform some linguistic analysis on a piece that he had found. He wanted to impress the young lady in this way, and, so, found out that she had a particular affinity for the works of Ludwig van Beethoven, a composer that I, too, had always enjoyed.

He had called me from where I'd been polishing the silver in the kitchen, and pulled out a handsome leather-bound score of Beethoven's _Symphony No. 9._ It had been reduced to a beguilingly difficult piano part, but the choral line in the final movement remained largely intact. Smiling, he presented the work to me and spoke about it with all of the enthusiasm of a real lover, his cobalt blue eyes shining with real joy. The fact was shaming, but I took the score and looked at it anyway.

"Lovely, isn't it, Jeeves? I think that this is just the thing to have Miss Wickham all of a twitter over me. You know that the young lady enjoys Beethoven? Well, I'm sure that this chorus, of all things, will have her setting the eyes upon young Bertram like nothing else. I wonder if you could give me a bit of a translation again, just to tell me what I shall be singing to her." I couldn't pretend to be an expert on the German language, but, from experience with the work and the little knowledge I did have of the tongue, I began haltingly:

"It begins, sir... with the baritone voice, declaiming, 'oh friends, not these tones,' referring to the fact that pieces from the previous three movements are repeated at the beginning of the fourth, followed by, 'rather, let us raise our voices in more pleasing... and joyful sounds'. It then moves onto the main theme of the piece, sir: In German, _'Freude, schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium, Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum! Deine Zauber binden wieder, Was die Mode streng geteilt; Alle Menschen werden Brüder, Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt...'_"

"You said a mouthful there, Jeeves," Mister Wooster interjected with a distinctly dumbfounded look, but waved his hand impatiently for me to go on in short order.

"It translates, if I recall correctly, sir, to approximately this: 'Joy, beautiful spark of the gods, daughter of Elysium, we enter, drunk with fire, Heavenly one, your sanctuary! Your magic reunites what custom strictly divided. All men become brothers where your gentle wing rests.'" Mister Wooster was furrowing his brow at me as I finished the passage, and he moved to take the score back, so I returned it to him without attempting to go on in my reading. I was too wary of our state of relations to begin to be stubborn about such minor things as finishing jobs I'd been told to start, anyway.

"I say, Jeeves, I think I've got quite the wrong thing. This might impress the birds somewhat, yes, but I want something with some real _romantic_ strains in it; this is all about friendship. It'd be more suited for me to sing to..." He paused here, and looked up at me for a moment with tension around his face, before he threw out a name, "Bingo, or one of the lads down at the Drones, rather than a toothsome filly. I'm glad that you were here to inform me, Jeeves."

I dismissed myself soon after hearing such things. I had had the thought that he meant to suggest that he would sing the song to me, but that he couldn't say it, either because he recalled the awful affair that was the last time he'd tried singing something for me, or because he didn't consider me 'friend' enough to be honoured with the lovely poetry of Herr Schiller at his most idealistic. Either way, I was struck down by the conversation, and left to dwell on how sadly it differed from the last time Mister Wooster asked me to translate a piece for him. Our life together was morphed into something perverse by that last conversation, yes, but, for a few moments, it had been nothing but love. It was only that the loves shared were directed differently that had turned our relations to discord.

_"Whose spring of tears doth stop my vital breath, and tears my heart with sorrow's sigh-swollen cries..."_

I would like to die. I know now that I favour the prospect. But I cannot. Not with my master still relying on me; not when I am meant to think of his safety and comfort more than anything else. I _cannot._ It is my 'feudal propriety', as he used to say, that is holding me from falling off this precipice. I suppose that I should be thankful for it, but I do find myself cursing the servant's family that I came from that leads me to thinking of my master before myself in this way.

_"O, come sweet sleep, come or I die forever..."_

At least I have something to look forward to at the end of days, now that I find myself so weary after each. I used to look on sleep as something that stood in the way of my achieving more during the twenty-four hours of the day; now, it is the element of life that is constant, the one that allows me to continue on without going utterly mad. If I did not sleep, I would not make it into another day. It is as simple as that. Each night, I can put my head down, and imagine that this is my deathbed, and that there shall be no more of the rack of unrequited love pulling at my limbs, as I will not wake.

_"Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never."_

I have no real friends, nor enemies, nor anything to be passionate about in life. My work is reduced to menial labor and my master is a good man who treads around me like one avoiding a land mine. Knowledge, the mere fact of it, used to make me glad; however, with no-one to share it with, I find that it has no purpose, just ast I do not without the prospect of my love returned. I really have _nothing_ to live for now, except to sleep, and to dream of the day that death will release me from my torturous duties.

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**A/N:** Wa-hey! That was sadder than I expected. And pretty short.

Anyway, I hope that this chapter-that-took-an-hour-after-singing-in-a-concert-which-involved-singing-the-choral-movement-of-Beethoven's-ninth-symphony-chapter was okay for you, and that, maybe, if you are one of those freaky people who went so far as to alerting my story, you can enjoy this a bit.

I'm deeply sorry if you don't like it, not only because of you, but because Google will now have to be disappointed as well.

Review? 8D If you review, I'll be far more likely to write again, and, perhaps, have that re-vamped happy version of this chapter that I wrote once- then deleted because I didn't like it, then (because I'm a moron) lost and have to start all over again- up sooner. Am desperately hoping that you want the happy version, and, thus, will review, of course. XP

Thanks very much for reading!

-Raven


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